


Business As Usual

by Nautilusopus



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Backstory, CC and dirge still not canon, Gen, Minor Character Death, References to Drugs, Secret Police, Terrible People Being Terrible Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 20:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nautilusopus/pseuds/Nautilusopus
Summary: The Turks have a very high turnover rate. Danger from the job, obviously, but the biggest killer is internal politics.(Written for 2019 Fic Exchange.)





	Business As Usual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [j_marquis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_marquis/gifts).

> I will fully admit to not exactly being a Reno/Rude expert but I swear to god I tried. Not happy with this, may go back and expand it later if I have better Turk ideas.
> 
> Written for the prompt: **How did someone like Reno end up in the Turks? He’s very obviously really only in it for the paycheck. And how did the Turks get from an elite force to four mishaps anyways? **

_No one leaves the Turks except in a bodybag._

The Department of Administrative Research had a lot of stories floating around it -- some true, some not. That they'd been involved in the burning of Corel, that they were the reason kids from the slums just went missing sometimes, that the whole department was secretly funded by the now-defunct prime minister of southern Mideel, that they'd all actually died years ago and all the photos of them were faked. But the one rule understood and accepted as true was _that_ one.

It wasn't even that Reno hadn't believed it when he'd first joined -- it was an open secret amongst everyone in Midgar. But he'd kind of thought that was only if you caused too much trouble or questioned orders, and Reno liked to consider himself a consummate professional.

Like right now. Soldier's idea of stealth was that you could go undetected if no one was left alive to detect you. Reno had only needed to drop two -- a drunk huddled under a dilapidated excavator that had seen him grab the kid, and the friend he'd apparently been staying with.

Twelve years old. Young enough to be malleable and effective as shock troops, old enough to follow complicated orders. Not to mention his high aptitude for magic making him a suspected Ancient, which was the reason he was being nabbed as a potential Soldier recruit in the first place. He tightened his grip on the struggling child, waiting for the needle full of sedative to kick in, then radioed for extraction, a half hour ahead of schedule. He might not be all that great at sticking to the dress code, but damned if he wasn't punctual down to the second. Like hell he was showing up late to anything and missing out on a cent of what they were paying him -- and like hell he was sticking around for unpaid overtime by leaving work unfinished. This was a job, not a bake sale. He wasn't volunteering for shit.

It was a balancing act, this Turk thing -- and one that Reno had gotten down to an art. Do your job well enough to remain a valuable asset to the company. Appear incompetent enough to convince the higher-ups you're not the type to ask questions or realise the sheer monetary value of your intel if it were to accidentally leak into enemy hands.

That was the first lesson he'd learned, period. How he'd gotten recruited, in fact.

Pushing papers under the Department of Defense didn't really fuel his lifestyle the way he'd hoped it would. Scarlet was as stingy with raises as she was prone to getting a bit too excited about live executions, and about eight months in he realised it was a dead-end career, watching other people make millions upon millions of gil while he moved it from account to account.

He doubted any them would notice if a little went missing. Especially since he was the one that was supposed to be making sure if any of it went missing. What a crying shame that would be.

Whether it was through Shinra's own incompetence or their overall indifference to the funds he was siphoning away, he kept a good pace going for the next three years. Booze, drugs, hookers, whatever. As long as he showed up to work on time every day they kept paying him, no matter how strung out he looked whenever he showed up. Still, when he was initially called into his boss's office he assumed it was because they'd finally decided to demand he tuck in his shirt on pain of immediate unemployment -- something that didn't overly concern him given he could probably keep accessing Shinra's funds as much as he needed to.

That was before he saw the two Soldiers on either side of the door, and a man with dark hair and dramatic features staring coldly at him as the lock clicked shut behind him.

"Not to worry, Mr. Sinclair, I'll cut right to the chase so as to not waste both of our time," said the man. "My name is Tseng. I am Acting Director of the Department of Administrative Research. You stand accused of embezzling six hundred thousand gil from the Shinra Electric Power Company's Public Safety accounts, and are charged with and have been declared guilty of high treason."

Reno stared at Tseng for what felt like an eternity while he waited for his brain to catch up with everything he'd just heard. When it did, he'd have sworn he'd felt his heart stop.

Tseng. The Turks -- Midgar's dreaded secret police that existed to recruit for Soldier in whatever way they deemed necessary, and to tie up loose ends as quickly and quietly as possible. And the director was standing here, three feet away from him, accompanied by two men that were rumoured to be able to take shotgun blasts to the face point blank and come out smiling.

He immediately extended the blank stare another couple seconds, praying they hadn't seen the panic in his eyes.

"...Is this a prank?" he asked incredulously, smooth as silk. "Am I being pranked? Look, I'll wear the damn tie, okay? Tell Lorenzo he could really stand to take that pole out of his ass before he gets a splinter."

He'd talked his way out of things plenty of times. The best lies had enough of a kernel of truth in them to line up with what they might know of the situation, contained just enough unverifiable detail to seem to have plausibly happened, and were just vague enough to avoid backing yourself into a corner in case they had facts you didn't, as well as sounding suspiciously elaborate. The delivery had to be natural enough for it to sound like one was merely recounting details, and halting and uncertain enough to not sound rehearsed. It was a skill, and one that Reno had spent quite a lot of time cultivating.

Not that he expected it to work on the _actual goddamn head of the Turks holy shit fuck fuck fuck --_

"I assure you this is not a prank, as the paper trail has been directly traced back to your workstation."

Yeah, there it was. Worth a shot.

"You've also filed several tax forms incorrectly, resulting in a discrepancy in the money you're claiming to have brought in from independent sales made in the slums."

He'd led a... good life? Well, not really --

"Not to mention," added Tseng, "you then lied about your misdeeds directly to an Administrative Researcher."

Well, not like they could kill him any deader.

"As such, we have a proposition for you."

"...Huh?"

Tseng straightened his tie and continued. "You managed to cover your tracks well enough to evade detection for some time, at least to anyone casually going through the accounts to ensure the numbers matched up. Your clerical error was an obvious oversight, but what was more impressive was you repeatedly getting into these accounts and leaving no record of the information having been accessed."

"Thank... you...?"

"What I'm offering you is a job," said Tseng. "You'll receive four times your present wage and have your criminal record cleared. We'll cancel both your execution and its public broadcast."

To this day, Reno was still stunned Tseng had even _asked_. As if he'd say no.

"Any benefits?" he replied, as though he were merely applying for another desk job and not potentially pleading for his life.

"A lifetime supply of oxygen," quipped Tseng without missing a beat, "as well as unrestricted travel access above and below the plate and between sectors."

"That's an awful lot of freedom to give someone like me, don't you think?"

"By now I'm sure you know that if you try anything, we will find you."

"You've made your point." He'd kidnap whatever hookers or whatever the company needed him to for that much money, even without the whole "not dying" bonus.

Which was how Reno came to join the Turks.

The "sample" he was ""escorting"" barely put up a fight. Six months into the job and it was already paying off. Sure, something awful probably happened to these people once they made it to the Science Department to """participate""" in """"administrative research"""" (if there was one downside to this job it was that the vocabulary was exhausting), but it was none of his business what the company decided.

When he arrived and passed off his mark to the appropriate parties, he rounded the corner to the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Orwell, he thought -- that's who'd sat at the cubicle across from his own. Quiet guy. Very tidy handwriting on the paperwork. Usually not bleeding all over the carpet, from what he could recall.

Tseng was standing there holding a silenced pistol, which he neatly stowed in his suit jacket once more.

"Your coworker was caught stealing company funds,” said Tseng, addressing the crowd of Turks -- about twenty or so -- gathered around the body, though he undoubtedly locked eyes with Reno first. “It’s a shame corruption has made its way into the corporate branch meant to stamp it out. Just something for all of you to keep in mind.”

Everything was cleaned up within an hour, and there was no sign that anyone had ever been sitting in the cubicle across from Reno at the end of it.

And that was how Orwell left the Turks.

* * *

There were still perks. Pretty good ones, even.

The pay was good, obviously. As was the access to the interior of Shinra Tower, and the upper plate suites the company provided them with. Bugged, of course, but Reno had taken care of that a few days after moving in. He suspected Tseng knew, but just didn’t care enough to do anything about it. There was no need for Reno to _act_ too low ambition to set up a coup against the company, he just _was_ and they both knew it. There was even some Ancient chick he got to harass every few weeks or so when Tseng was too busy to do it himself, which meant seeing actual, honest to god flowers. Reno had grown up in Sector 3, and he’d seen pictures of real flowers, of course, but they never quite captured the smell. That smell alone was worth shooting whoever they pointed him at. It was none of his business.

Still... it got a little hard to watch at times. There had been this one lady -- good work ethic, but she kept leaving traces. Not traces that couldn't be dealt with -- a broken window here, a couple missed shots there -- but still traces. Enough that they'd want someone else on the payroll that could do a better job. And they couldn't exactly fire her, knowing what she did.

The tipping point was the journalist -- just a casual comment about how they weren't involved in the disappearance of some guy from Sector 6, never mind the fact that they'd been planning on leaving the body in Sector 3 and pretending he'd been discovered there.

He didn't even realise she was gone until he came in one day and found another man sitting at her desk, typing away at a report.

"Where's Avery?" he asked bluntly. "That's her desk."

"Don't know who that is," said the man. "Don't think I should ask. I work here now."

"...So you do," said Reno, an easy smirk hiding the nausea he felt, wondering what his running tally of "traces" looked like. "Welcome to the Turks, bub. You got a name?"

"Rude," said Rude. That may or may not have been his actual name, but it was a bit of a faux pas to ask that sort of thing in this profession. "Are you this chatty with everyone, or just me?"

"Everyone," said another Turk, Silas, nearby. "You learn to tune it out."

"What can I say, I'm a social butterfly," he replied, even as he spent the rest of the day glancing nervously at the portrait of Shinra executives on the wall, Heidegger's stern gaze burning itself into the back of his neck.

Rude retained his new desk the next day, and the day after that.

That was how Avery left the Turks.

* * *

"...and Reno, you'll be partnering with Rude."

"Yessir," said Reno, shrugging. Rude merely nodded, and Tseng returned to his desk, seemingly satisfied.

Not one word. Rude had not said one single solitary word since arriving here. He was silent on the ride over, and silent on the way down to the slums.

(He was also presumably silent as Rude "took care of business" and Reno waited outside the building with the getaway car, which was at least understandable.)

"So do I just piss you off that much, or...?"

“No.”

“Sure seems like it.” Reno took a corner a lot harder than he needed to and shot the other man a look. “Were you this congenial at your last job, too?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You’re probably a blast at parties.”

“I am.” Rude’s voice was as dry as ever. It occurred to Reno that he was probably fucking with him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Bottle spinning world champion of 5758.”

“Well, that’s…” Reno took a beat too long to come up with a sarcastic retort.

“Amazing, and suddenly you realise all your accomplishments pale in comparison to mine.”

“Shit, I guess so,” said Reno. “Do you drink?”

“Once I --”

“No, I mean, do you wanna hit up a bar after this or something?” he clarified. “Take the edge off.” He didn’t specify _what_ he was taking the edge off. Maybe the body of the slum rights activist they had in the trunk of their car wasn’t getting to Rude the same way it was getting to him. But then, that was none of either of their business.

“Not much, but if they got decent food I’m paying.”

“Fine by me. Let’s dump the cargo and get cleaned up. Car’s starting to smell.”

As it turned out, the bar had some excellent chicken wings, which did a lot to distract from the sound of a woodchipper “leaving” its way through a former Turk.

* * *

Rude actually turned out to be decent company. It was easy enough to just follow him out the door for coffee -- the man didn't talk much in general, and he hadn't told Reno to stop talking yet, which was a plus.

"So, Turks," said Reno. "This job's invitation only. What's your deal?"

"Got promoted," replied Rude.

"That's it?"

"That's it." Rude shrugged. It didn't really fit, with the shaved head and piercings. "It was either that or Soldier. Tseng paid me a visit. Explained the whole thing."

"Yeah, he does that," said Reno flatly, as Rude dumped two caffeine pills into his espresso and tossed back the mixture like it was a whiskey sour. "But you know --"

"Not a damn thing happens up on the plate," said Rude. "I got bored."

"That's _pretty_ fucking bored," said Reno. "What if you get... let go?"

"Don't plan to," said Rude. "Keep your head down, do as you're told, don't go digging too deep?"

Reno raised his eyebrow. "This isn't your first rodeo, then."

Rude shrugged. "We've all heard the stories," he said. "And given that you're still alive, you've obviously heard 'em too."

They went quiet then, partially because they'd reached Rude's flat, partially because a radio broadcast drifting through from next door was announcing that a member of the Department of Administrative Research had been KIA by something from the science department with a lot of teeth and a penchant for eating through steel bars before escaping into the streets below.

And that was how Silas left the Turks.

* * *

Work was called off the next day while they cleaned up the carnage, because apparently the thing had leaked. Leaked what, they didn't specifically say, and no one really wanted to know when the Science Department had attempted to explain. Reno sat there in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't realised how much he actually looked forward to going in to work each day. It wasn't as though he did a whole lot of actual social butterfly-ing. He didn't have anywhere to go. He'd been busy enough with work to clean up his act, so he had nothing to snort to pass the time. He supposed, with the money he had, he could see about getting some...

Instead he picked up his PHS and called Rude.

He picked up on the second ring. _"Rude here."_

"Hey, it's me. I'm bored. You doing anything?"

_"...Nothing important," _he said slowly. _"You got anything interesting planned?"_

"Nope," said Reno. "Kinda hoped you did. What do you even do in your free time?"

_"Wax my head."_

"Ha ha. So, look -- I sorta owe you lunch, from last time."

_"Aren't we on lockdown right now?"_

"Only for the plate. No one gives a shit what you do in the slums."

_"...I know a place," _said Rude after a moment. _"Really good food if you can get past the fact that the roof's falling in and the pinball machine doesn't work. Sector 7, I think."_

"Is this a hot waitress bar, or a bar bar?"

_"The owner doesn't like it when you make passes," _said Rude. _"Trust me."_

"Huh. Well, whatever. Be over in an hour."

_"Wait --"_

Reno hung up and rolled himself out of bed to put on pants. At least _something_ good had come of the fact that they were down a coworker.

Lunch was pretty nice, too. Rude hadn't been kidding about the food, and the atmosphere was almost kinda homey. Or, it would have been if the owner didn't keep glowering at Rude and cracking her knuckles.

"So... high turnover rate," said Rude in between bites of potato skins.

"No shit," said Reno. "I mean, it was always kinda like that, but never this bad. I --"

And then something occurred to him, and suddenly the drink in his mouth felt thin and acidic.

"Is this a date? Are we dating?"

Rude raised an eyebrow as though he hadn't considered it. "I guess we are."

"Don't tell anyone," said Reno immediately.

"Fraternisation?"

"Yeah," said Reno with a grimace. He lowered his voice and glanced furtively at the owner, who had thankfully disappeared into the back. "I mean, we're technically a military division under Heidegger. There's rumours..."

"You know half of those are bullshit."

"Yeah, I know. They say the last guy that tried to get involved with someone on the job got sent to the Science Department to be dissected or something. Valentine, I think? Guy's got a whole bunch of awards on the back wall but no one really talks about him, but... look, just keep this quiet."

He spared another glance up at the empty bar and downed the rest of his drink in one go.

"I'm sure as hell not leaving the Turks the same way as Valentine, if I can help it."

* * *

_"Ladies and gentlemen, coming to you live from the Sector 2 Central Plaza is a once in a lifetime event! Former Administrative Researcher Pinion Lapine has been tried and found guilty of high treason. We're bringing you exclusive footage of his execution, only on Channel 6!"_

Reno wordlessly passed Rude back his bag of pretzels as they sat on the couch, watching. Perhaps they should be there in person to see him go, but at the same time... well, he _knew_ the guy. He didn't exactly want to see his brains blown out right in front of him.

He reminded himself forcibly that it was really none of his business what Shinra did with its traitors, and that he hadn't even gotten attached to the guy. It was fine.

_"Lapine is here after being apprehended in leaking sensitive information to what may have been a terrorist cell based out of Sector 7. It's Midgar's public that he's harmed with his actions, so Midgar's public deserves to see justice served to him with their own eyes."_

"Moron," muttered Rude. "Didn't even turn off his phone."

"Maybe he got himself caught on purpose," said Reno. "Maybe this is a martyr thing."

"He always was a little quiet," said Rude.

"You're one to fucking talk, man," said Reno, shooting him a smirk that didn't reach all the way to his eyes.

They both refused to look away as Pinion left the Turks, and Reno found himself squeezing Rude's hand so tightly they both lost feeling in their fingers as he watched the body topple to the ground.

* * *

Reno needed out.

He had no idea how he'd accomplish that, or where he'd hide if he succeeded. The job was fine, the work was easy, but --

Some other guy. He'd been there for _years_, hair greying from the job alone. Set to retire. Smart guy, too -- good at his job, hypercompetent, knew about a thousand Shinra secrets from years and years of excellent Turk work.

It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe they wanted to tie up loose ends, maybe they figured he held _too_ much good favour for it to be safe to keep him around, maybe he was just getting too old to be as active as he once was.

Either way, perhaps that's why he was found dead in his car the next morning, his resignation letter from the Turks boldly announcing how he'd taken his own life.

The office was awfully quiet these days. Rude still hadn't moved into the desk across from his, which meant Tseng was leaving it either as a reminder not to fraternise, or a reminder of the nature of his job security.

Reno was under no illusions about either.

* * *

They finally hired a new recruit to replace Orwell, at least.

Pretty young, this one. Reno couldn't really tell if she was afraid of Tseng or ready to worship the ground he walked on. Or both.

He spent the first three hours of his shift amusing himself by watching her scurry about the office, latching into Tseng's every word. By the end of two days, he'd come up with a rather cruel impression of her that managed to get a whole entire chuckle out of Rude. By the end of three, he'd taken to calling her Gopher Girl in his head, from the nervous twitchy way she kept jerking her head around to Tseng, and how she kept fetching things for him unprompted.

Still, her work was tidy, and on time, and she was clearly dead set on putting her best foot forward with this job.

Poor stupid sap. Elena wouldn't last a week.

Reno sat up in his chair.

Or maybe he'd make sure she didn't.

Rude's performance review was coming up soon. He'd been careful, they both had, but a thousand things could've gone wrong. Too quiet, not quiet enough, too clean, not clean enough -- they clearly weren't picky, and they were low on bodies.

It was a terrible thing to do, he knew. He barely knew this lady. She'd been a decent enough coworker, if not a bit of a joyless hardass (so, a perfect fit. Why in the hell had Tseng even hired him?). And his own performance review would come up sooner or later, and maybe _she_ had someone she'd rather throw under the bus. It wouldn't take much for either one of them. There were so few Ancients left -- none, potentially, though Tseng was still sitting on that one he refused to take in for whatever reason. They'd reached a point where Shinra didn't really have to worry about subtlety. Public executions had been a thing for the last ten years, and Mayor Domino had ceded control of Urban Planning in the last eight. Maybe they were just a dying breed. Who knew, maybe the whole Department of Administrative Research might get cut altogether. 

Still, though... it was none of his business what Shinra did with its employees.

Especially if they decided to quit.


End file.
